


Ghosts

by vands88



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, POV Steve Rogers, Sleepovers, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands88/pseuds/vands88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Peggy's funeral, Steve gets a visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on an epic Natasha POV fic (barbershop quartet! fuck yeah!) but I had this plotbunny that wouldn't fit in with that universe and had to get out so, here we are. Thanks to [hardcoreprince](http://hardcoreprince.tumblr.com/) for the beta for this ficlet, but also for patiently holding my hand through the epic that will not end.

It’s the second worst day of Steve’s life, which is saying something, but it’s true. Aliens in New York should probably top that, crashing into the Atlantic, his mother’s funeral, waking up so far in the future it didn’t even feel like home… all of that was bad, but saying goodbye to Peggy Carter? He had barely had time to say hello.

He couldn’t have made it through the funeral without Natasha on one side and Sam on the other. They were silent, and respectful. They didn’t even take his hand, but he knew that they were offering if he needed it. There’s a strange sort of relationship between them that he doesn’t know how to define. It’s part of the stasis he found himself in - unable to love Peggy, unable to find Bucky, just getting by with his “house” and his “job” and his… friends in this new world - and he’d become so used to the state of things that, suddenly, he realises, he doesn’t know how to deal with the freefall.

He goes home that night with the weight of the coffin still on his shoulders. Natasha and Sam offered to stay, in their own ways, but it’s too much too soon. He needs to get all this straightened in his head. He doesn’t turn on the lights; he can’t face seeing himself like this, so he throws down his cell phone on the coffee table and goes to find the bottle of alcohol that Thor gave him. He finds it hidden behind a couple of cans at the back of the cupboard. He was saving it for a special occasion, but he can’t think of any better. He stops short of getting a glass. There’s no one here to fool except himself.

He slumps against the couch and tilts the bottle until the burn hits the back of his throat. His eyes water, and not because of the taste. He blinks back the tears, staring at the dark ceiling, and willing this day to end. 

When he opens his eyes to his apartment again, there is a shadow that does not belong. His eyes flicker across the dark room to the window where a curtain now flutters in the breeze. Instinctively, he recalls where his gun and shield are. Nearby. Close enough. The adrenaline starts pumping through him, he can feel it in the quickening of his heart, but it’s not enough to cut through the heavy burden in his gut. He is tired. He wants this over with. (He wants everything over with). “Whoever you are,” he says, “come out. I’m not in the mood for games.”

The shadow shifts, and an impossible face appears from the darkness. The bottle slips in Steve’s grip, he only catches it out of instinct. He can’t be seeing Bucky Barnes in his apartment. They’ve been searching for him for _months_. Steve must be tired. Hallucinating. He takes another swig of the drink like it will help make things clearer.

“Steve,” the visitor says. And that’s his voice. There’s something darker about it, heavier, but it’s the same voice that has haunted him for years. Saying goodbye to Peggy Carter was the second worst day of his life; but watching Bucky fall was, and always shall be, the first.

Bucky approaches slowly, but Steve holds his hand up, and Bucky halts. “Wait, I can’t - “ Steve says, though he doesn’t know what the hell he can’t do. He stands up in frustration, putting down the bottle on the coffee table with a harsh clink that resounds through the silence. He runs his fingers through his hair, turns away, and when Bucky is still there when he looks back, he groans in frustration and turns away again to pace the room. He should be happy he’s here. So why is he angry? Angry that Bucky can just turn up and throw the day sideways. Twist the chains around his heart until he doesn’t know if it’s restricting or freeing. It just fucking  _hurts_. “Fuck, Bucky. Why are you here?”

“Wanted to see you,” he whispers. There’s so much more Brooklyn in his accent then there was last they saw each other, but it’s not the old Bucky, not by a long shot.

“I can’t - ” Steve says again, but still doesn’t know what he wants to say. “I can’t see you,” he tries, but that’s wrong. “No, that’s not true,” he rectifies quickly, “I’m glad you’re here, glad you’re okay, I just -” he shouts wordlessly, annoyed at himself for not knowing what to do, what to say. “Do you know what day it is?”

Bucky lowers his head, and it’s all the answer Steve needs. 

“Great,” Steve says sarcastically, putting his hands on his hips, and gesturing at Bucky, “so you’re here just to - what exactly? Give me another ghost to mourn? ‘Cos that’s getting real tired. Jesus, Bucky, I thought you were dead. Again, I mean. It’d been months. I can’t keep doing this.” 

“I had to lay low,” Bucky says in an unattached monotone, which contrasts with Steve’s emotional rambling enough to make him even angrier.

“You could have trusted me!” Steve shouts.

Bucky says nothing, betrays nothing. Just stands the other side of the coffee table like a child expecting to be scolded for staying out late.

Steve is exhausted.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he repeats in a whisper. He collapses back on the couch and reaches for the bottle. If Bucky is here to kill him, then he can just do it. He doesn’t have the energy to fight.

Bucky doesn’t kill him. Bucky comes to sit next to him. 

Steve looks across at him warily, but Bucky still doesn’t give him anything. Steve offers him the bottle.

Bucky takes it with suspicion and lifts it into the moonlight from the window, trying to read the writing. “From your Asgardian friend,” he surmises. “Good. I need something strong.” And then he gulps down a good inch of the liquid.

The old Steve might have teased Bucky about it, about how handsy and boastful he gets when he gets drunk, but this isn’t his old Bucky. This is someone new. And something about Bucky’s posture says that he knows exactly what he’s doing; that he took the drink for therapy too.

Bucky passes the drink back to Steve. “You want to talk about her?”

“No,” Steve says, and takes another swig.

Steve watches the hands of the clock tick by. It’s strangely relaxing. Gives measure to the silence.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says at last, “that it took me so long.”

Steve looks sideways at his old friend. He wants to stay angry; that’s an emotion he can deal with. He sighs and shakes his head, turning to face him. “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry I was angry. You came back to me and that’s all that matters.”

Bucky looks away. 

Steve knows that sign. “You’re not staying, are you?”

Bucky bites his lip. Shakes his head.

Steve lets his head fall into his hands and breathes out long and slowly.

Bucky explains, “You have friends that would kill me for what I did. Powerful friends. I have to lay low.”

“For how long?!” Steve shouts. “Please, Buck. I’ll help you, just - ”

“When you need me, I’ll - ”

“What if I need you now?” Steve interrupts. It’s childish and he knows it. Annoyed with himself again, at his emotional outbursts, he looks away to the clock.

It barely ticks three times before Bucky is touching him. A hand on the knee. Steve closes his eyes. It’s too familiar. When they used to go out to bars and dances and whatever else, Bucky would do this whenever he could risk it, just this simple touch under the table to let Steve know they were in it together.

“Buck - ” he whispers, but he’s cut short by soft lips against his. He gasps in surprise, and his eyes flicker open and closed, just quickly enough to convince himself it’s really happening. He reaches out to grasp at Bucky but he’s already pulling out of reach.

“I don’t want to be your ghost, Rogers,” he says, backing away into the shadows. “I’ll come back when I can. I promise.”

Steve remembers all too many similar promises, and smiles sadly. “Punk,” he whispers. 

When he looks back up, the shadows have righted themselves, and the curtain moves in a way that isn’t entirely natural.

He sighs, and puts the lid back on the bottle. He watches the clock tick by.

There’s a knock at his door ten minutes later.

A little sliver of hope arises but he squashes it as soon as he thinks it. Bucky wouldn’t come back so soon. It’s probably a neighbour. He ignores it, and waits to hear footsteps walking away, but instead there’s the sound of a key in the door.

He stands up just as Natasha and Sam walk through the door armed with sleeping bags, movies, and junk food. He should be mad at them for going against his request for solitude, but he’s used up all his anger on Bucky, and beneath that… there’s a little flutter like hope, like happiness, like he wants them to be here. He smiles at the sight of them laden down with so much stuff. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

Natasha exchanges a worried look with Sam before turning back to Steve. “You texted us and asked for an emergency sleepover,” she says sceptically.

“I did? Why would I…?” Steve asks, and then feels extremely stupid. He leaps for his phone, but it’s not on the coffee table anymore. He finds it by the window. “That punk-ass…” he mutters as he scrolls through his outbox. It’s there. As well as a message saved in the drafts: _I like your friends, Rogers. Don’t let them become ghosts too._

“Everything alright?” Sam asks, as he unloads the food in the kitchen. Sam knows where everything is. They both have a key. And Steve realises… Natasha has a spare set of clothes here. Sam has a toothbrush and a pair of boxers in the laundry hamper. It’s not really stasis. They’re moving forward.

“I, erm,” Steve says, flipping his phone in his hands. He puts it down on the side. “Yeah, actually, I’m… good.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want more ~~depressing~~ cute MCU headcanons, I have a [tumblr](http://vands88.tumblr.com/).


End file.
